In Which John is Strangled
by LaydeeGodiva
Summary: In which John Watson finds himself on the unfortunate end of strangulation. Oneshot. Sherlock/John.


BBC Sherlock is complete love for me right now.

Decided to write some Shwatsonlock (which is **Sherlock/John**).

**Yes there's boy love at the end. Don't read if you don't like, because I honestly don't care. **

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to BBC.

I just write fanfiction!

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"_If there ever comes a day we can't be together, keep me in your heart, I'll stay there forever"_

John woke, deliberated whether or not he should actually get out of bed today. He'd been having a dream, a pleasant one, but the vestiges of its images were rapidly fading and he couldn't grab hold of them, wanted them desperately to stay. They vanished into the depths of his mind and he let out a long exhale, threw the comforter from his legs, sat up. He stared at his hands in his lap for several seconds, still debated whether he should just lie back down or actually stand up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stood, stretched. The flat of 221B Baker Street was silent, an unusual occurrence.

It hadn't been silent until six months ago.

Six months ago, Sherlock would have been awake, toiling away at some experiment in the kitchen, or typing away at his keyboard, the clacking of the keys filling the room; or he would have been playing his violin, songs John didn't recognize, songs he figured the consulting detective had made up. Six months ago, John would have emerged from his room, sleepy-eyed and shuffling, and Sherlock would have handed him a mug of coffee, offered him cold breakfast that had been made hours ago. Six months ago, John would have sat down on the lounge with the paper while Sherlock updated his site. Six months ago, John would have commented to his flat-mate about an interesting news article and Sherlock would respond with some passive comment about how droll normal people were.

That was six months ago.

Now as John emerged from his room, sleepy-eyed and shuffling, there was no coffee, no cold breakfast, no Sherlock on his computer. There was only the silence of the flat and the dull thunder of traffic on the street below. John entered the kitchen, the space devoid of every hint of experiment, the microscope and Petri dishes gone, boxed up in storage. There were no severed heads in the fridge or toxins in unmarked bottles on the shelves. No ongoing experiments. No maps on the corkboard or miscellaneous papers strewn about the sitting room. The longcoat that had constantly hanged behind the door, navy scarf on top, was also gone.

John stood in the hall entry, stared at the blank scene, sighed. He headed into the kitchen, started up the coffee pot. While the thing brewed, filling the flat with the dark smell of coffee, John moved to the living room, sat down hard in his favorite chair. He stared at the vacant chair across from him, drew his lips into a thin line, looked away. He was confronted by a photograph on the mantle, a photograph Missus Hudson had taken of him and Sherlock outside the flat one brisk November morning. She'd just been coming back from the bank, them from the coffeehouse down the way. John turned his head the other way, wasn't able to look at anything in the flat that didn't remind him of Sherlock. The coffeepot gurgled in the kitchen.

He'd kept the newspaper clipping from the incident (in reality, it had spanned the entire front page). 'SHERLOCK HOLMES MISSING—SCOTLAND YARD FEARS WORST'. John hadn't been with Sherlock on the last case, had been busy at the clinic, had regretted telling Sherlock he could handle the case on his own. When John had returned home that evening, he didn't think much about Sherlock not being there. It wasn't unusual for the consulting detective to be out late, maybe not even come home at all. It worried John, obviously, but he wasn't about to call Lestrade over it. That night he'd gone to sleep soundly.

The next afternoon, he still hadn't received word from Sherlock, not even a text. He'd called Lestrade; the Detective Inspector hadn't heard from him either, had just been ready to call John to ask the same thing. John called Mycroft; Sherlock's brother hadn't heard from him in days. Finally John had checked his e-mail, thought maybe Sherlock would be courteous enough to leave him that. He'd one e-mail from his flat-mate, the message simple. 'Have to go away; for the case –SH'. That had been the last anyone heard of Sherlock Holmes.

John had been fine the first week without Sherlock.

The first month, he called Lestrade constantly, wanted to know of any news from the consulting detective. There was never any.

By five month's time, John believed Sherlock wasn't coming back.

Now that it had been half a year, John had packed up Sherlock's things, put them into storage. He couldn't keep looking at them each day.

The coffeepot beeped its completion from the kitchen. John stood, wandered into the kitchen, took his mug from the counter and poured his coffee. He leaned against the counter, sighed, heard the front door below open and close, thought, Missus Hudson must be going out.

He glanced at the microwave clock. It was eight eighteen on Saturday. Missus Hudson wasn't likely to be awake yet. The thudding of footsteps came up the stairs, he heard a noise at the flat door. His coffee sloshed from his mug as he set it down hard, rushed from the kitchen into the living room as the door swung open.

"You ought to keep that locked." Lestrade pulled off his gloves, shoved them into the pocket of his jacket. "Figured you'd be awake. Morning." John closed his eyes, let out a long exhale.

"Detective Inspector," he greeted sullenly, moved back to fetch his coffee. "What's the occasion?" He took a long drink, gripped his mug hard to hide the shaking of his hand. He wouldn't admit to Lestrade that he'd been expecting—hoping—that someone else had been at the door. Lestrade knew, regardless of John's silence on the matter.

"I got a text," Lestrade said. His sentence hung in the air between them, floated before John like a lighthouse beacon.

"From…from him?"

Lestrade nodded. "From him. Here." He pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolled through his texts, held the screen toward John. The doctor snatched the device from Lestrade, stared at the screen.

'Serial murderer is Benjamin Gale—have evidence. –SH'

John reread the message, furrowed his brown.

"He's coming back, then?" His voice was quiet, shaken. He handed the phone back to Lestrade.

"Best I can figure is he followed this guy all over the country, waited for him to slip up." Lestrade pocketed his phone. "He'd been a suspect in our case but we didn't have any solid evidence against him. Sherlock had his suspicions but we couldn't hold Gale on just suspicions."

"But why did it take so long?" John needed to sit down, let his rear find the seat of a kitchen chair. "Why didn't he let us know what was happening?" Lestrade shrugged, shook his head in confusion.

"Couldn't tell you. All I know is Gale disappeared from the city the same day Sherlock did." The phone in Lestrade's pocket began to ring. He answered it. A few brief syllables were exchanged. The Detective Inspector replaced his phone, pulled on his gloves. "Gale's been gone six months and there hasn't been a murder fitting his MO." John recognized the look on Lestrade's face.

"Until now," he said, stood. Lestrade nodded. "Let me get dressed. Five minutes."

The crime scene was across London, in Brixton. Police tape sectioned off the front sidewalk of a series of small flats and Donovan signaled to Lestrade as he pulled up. "Victim is female. Strangled with this." She held up a transparent evidence bag that contained a short steel cable. "Haven't found any other evidence, though."

"That's fine," Lestrade said, took the bag from Donovan. She stared at him, her mouth a little 'o'.

"That's fine?" She was incredulous.

"We have all the evidence we need," Lestrade replied as he ducked under the tape. "Once Sherlock gets back." Donovan rolled her eyes, held up the tape for John to duck under.

"And what makes you think the Freak is coming back this time?" she asked. "It's been six months. He's probably off and di—" Lestrade shot her a glare that silenced her immediately. He inclined his head at John as the doctor passed.

"I got a text from him," Lestrade said simply. He turned and disappeared into the flat.

Anderson was bent over the body, looked up when Lestrade and John entered. "Detective Inspector," he greeted, stood. "Strangulation." He inclined his head at the corpse.

"Tell me something I don't already know, Anderson." Anderson bristled at the rebuke.

"Victim is female, twenty two. Alice Witt." He snatched her ID from the small table at his right, passed it to Lestrade. "Looks like Gale's MO to me but we don't have any conclusive evidence." Lestrade dropped the ID into an evidence bag.

"We do," he replied shortly.

"We do?"

"Sherlock's got it."

Anderson gave quite the same response as Donovan had, rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. "You don't believe he's coming back, do you? He's been gone half a year chasing this bloke and now you think that he's just suddenly going to crop back up like nothing's happened? Tch. Please."

Lestrade's phone began to ring again, a signal of another text. This one he read aloud. "Battersea Park. Fifteen minutes. You'll have your murderer. –SH'." The Detective Inspector shot Anderson a condescending 'Told you so' look. "Let's head down there, Doctor Waston." John nodded, followed Lestrade out of the flat, back to the squad car. "Donovan, I want three units at Battersea Park in twenty minutes. Plainclothes, tell them to find me." Donovan nodded, was on her cell in seconds.

Battersea Park was an eleven minute drive from the flat complex. John tried to keep his heart from exploding out of his chest, thrummed his fingers anxiously against his knee, stared out the window. He wondered what the reunion would be like, between him and Sherlock. Would it be a happy reunion, with hugs and declarations of relief? Or would it be emotionless, with just a nod exchanged between them? It could go either way, John figured. He was mad enough at Sherlock for leaving—and not telling him a damn thing—that he'd be fine with being cold toward the detective for a few days, if not weeks.

However, John was also relieved enough to learn that Sherlock was alive, hadn't been killed on this bloody case of his, that the doctor was quite ready to burst into tears at first sight of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

John would find out his reaction soon enough; Lestrade pulled the car to a stop in front of Battersea Park.

"I'll keep a look out for Gale," he said to John as they exited the car. "You watch for Sherlock. He's probably around here someplace." John nodded and the two men entered the park.

John kept an eye on Lestrade as they broke apart, began to search the front half of the park for either a sign of Gale or of Sherlock, whoever appeared first. John didn't have his mind on anything but finding Sherlock, catching a glimpse of his dark curly hair and pale piercing eyes. So distracted was John with these thoughts that he ran straight into another person.

"Sorry, I'm terribly sorry." He looked up, saw the hardened face of a tall tan man.

"Watch where you're going," he growled, pushed past John, continued walking. Despite the man's cap and five o'clock shadow, John recognized his face from the news—and from the photos Sherlock had been looking at six months ago.

It was Benjamin Gale.

John thought fast, pulled his cell from his pocket, dialed Lestrade. "I've got him," he whispered harshly.

"What?"

"Gale. I just ran into him. Literally."

"Don't do anything stupid, John. John? John!"

John had already disconnected, dropped his phone back into his pocket. He jogged lightly after Gale, thought, this was his chance to take down one of England's most notorious serial killers. His jog turned into a sprint and he leapt onto the man's back, wrapped his arm around Gale's neck. A grunt of surprise came from the man, he clawed at John, swung around in an attempt to fling the doctor off. John held on tight, wanted to deprive Gale of oxygen long enough to make him pass out.

Gale had other plans.

The man (who was a good four inches taller than John and at least fifty pounds heavier) fell backward suddenly, crushed John between his frame and the cobblestones. The shock of the impact caused John to loosen his grip as all the air was pushed from his lungs. He gasped for air as Gale threw off his arm, stood.

"You working for the fucking police?" he snarled, pulled a piece of steel cable from the pocket of his jacket. John was still trying to recover from the fall, rolled onto his side, tried to get up. Gale kicked him in the side, John rolled the other way, grunted in pain. Suddenly the steel cable was around his neck, pulled tight against his throat. John struggled, felt the steel digging into his skin, thought, Lestrade told me not to do anything stupid.

Black spots danced at the fringes of his vision and he felt his muscles relaxing, let his hands fall from the cable around his neck.

Suddenly the weight was gone, the steel cable falling to the cobblestones, the air rushing back into John's lungs as he inhaled deeply, coughed, gasped for breath. He fell to the ground, blinked away the black spots, coughed and gagged in rapid, ragged inhales. His eyes focused, he saw two shapes wrestling on the ground. One was Gale and the other…

The other was Sherlock.

John watched, tried to catch his breath, crawled toward the two men. Sherlock had Gale straddled, punched him in the face. Gale twisted, flung Sherlock to the side. The match didn't last long; suddenly police filled the area. Three overtook Gale, restrained him, cuffed him. Lestrade was shouting orders. Sherlock was rushing toward John. He slid to his knees, grabbed either side of John's face. "Are you all right?" he asked, his face unchanged in the six months he'd been gone. As beautiful as ever, John noted mentally. He didn't reply and Sherlock repeated his question.

"What a reunion," John commented, his voice hoarse from the near strangulation. A smile split Sherlock's lips and he pulled John into a tight hug, didn't care who saw. John was still trying to get his full breath back, let Sherlock hug him, shut his eyes tight against unbidden tears. "I thought you were dead," he muttered into the wool of Sherlock's long coat.

"What?" Sherlock pulled away finally, stared hard at John. "Why would you think that?" John's face fell, he stared at Sherlock blankly.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did I think you were dead? Oh, I don't know, Sherlock. It couldn't have to do with the fact that you disappeared for _six months_ without so much as a text!"

"I texted Lestrade; didn't he tell you?" Sherlock seemed genuinely unaffected by the whole situation.

"You texted Lestrade this morning." John's face was hard as marble. "You sent me an e-mail the day you disappeared that said you were going away for the case. No where, no when you'd be back, no what you were doing. My god, Sherlock, I thought the serial murderer had killed you!" John's voice had risen in volume and pitch and he had to calm himself before continuing, quieter now. "I even had your things put in storage."

"You had my things put in storage?" Sherlock was incredulous, eyes wide for a moment.

"Yes, Sherlock. In storage. That's what you do when someone dies and you can't bear to get rid of their personal effects." John's tone was stiff and he frowned deeply. "It's what you do when you can't stand to think that the person that you care the most about up and leaves you alone for six months without any word whatsoever." John's words struck a chord with Sherlock, the consulting detective's face softened, like he'd finally realized what the effect of his actions was.

"John…" He trailed off, stared at John with an apologetic gaze.

"I thought you were dead and it destroyed me," John said flatly, felt a tight knot form in his chest. He watched the expression on Sherlock's face change again, watched him close his eyes, open them.

"I'm sorry."

The apology was sincere, but it was the following kiss that had cemented it into John's mind. Sherlock had leaned forward quick, pressed their lips together with fervor unmatched, took John's face in his gloved hands. John ignored the look from Lestrade, the surprised—but not shocked—look that held the Detective Inspector's features. Sherlock pulled away.

"You taste like licorice." John raised a blonde eyebrow at the man before him. "I didn't know you liked licorice."

"I love it," Sherlock replied smoothly, sat back, helped John to his feet with a small grunt. "Reminds me of you."

John furrowed his brow, confused. "Me?" he asked. "Why me?"

"It's not so bitter you can't stand to eat it, but just sweet enough that you can't get enough." Sherlock smiled at the almost poetic comparison. John stared at him a moment, chuckled, shook his head.

"I'm glad to have you back, Sherlock."

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Thanks for reading~


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